Snow White, Rose Red
by Amberdreams
Summary: Abaddon possesses Dean and thinks she has broken both the Mark and the Blade. But she isn't counting on Sam, who will go to every length that Dean doesn't believe he will, in order to get his brother back; plumbing depths Sam didn't even know existed before Gadreel's occupation of his body.


**Snow White, Rose Red**

**genre**: Gen

**warnings**: Probably a hard R for violence and swearing. Unbetat'd! Liberties taken with Norse mythology. Season 9 speculation/AU.

**story/art summary**: Abaddon possesses Dean and thinks she has broken both the Mark and the Blade. But she wasn't counting on Sam, who will go to every length that Dean doesn't believe he will in order to get his brother back, plumbing depths Sam didn't even know existed before Gadreel's deceitful occupation of his body. Art shows Dean as the Mark and Sam with angel powers.

Sammessiah Anti Christmas Exchange for **blythechild **who wanted Sam with various hellish creatures. I've managed to mention Crowley but mainly feature Abaddon and a Norse goddess. Also unholy powers, epic battle (ish), the boys being badasses, non-Judeo-Christian mythology or gods/goddesses. Sorry I never quite got to the pie.

The prompt that is closest to this fic was - _Dean is snatched back to Hell by [insert bad guy/girl of choice here] but Hell hath no fury like Unholy Demon Jesus!Sam... _

Oh and there is bonus art to be found on AO3 (I'm Amberdreams on there) or on Live Journal (I'm amber1960 there).

* * *

_Does space to compass-points conform,_

_And can we say a star stands high or low?)_

_Not more complex the millions of the stars_

_Than are the hearts of mortal brothers_

_Wilfred Owen 1913_

Someone should have warned Abaddon that stealing Dean was a bad idea. Crowley could have told her, but the erstwhile King of Hell was currently at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, being held (literally) by a primeval giant squid at Abaddon's behest, so it was therefore questionable whether he'd have been inclined to do her any favours. Besides. It was hard to say anything much when every orifice was being invaded and plugged by a slimy tentacle.

See, Abaddon might win in terms of being a badass, evil bitch queen, full of that ruthless edge you need to get on in Hell, but Crowley's stint as King of the Crossroads, before climbing up to the virtual top of the diabolical political ladder, meant he knew a lot about the nature of souls. And Crowley was well aware that the Winchesters' souls were different from most humans.

As it was, with Crowley out of the picture, there was nobody to dare say her nay when Abaddon finally cornered the elder Winchester in Ilchester, of all places, and no one to stop her when she sliced a bright red fingernail through the tattoo on his perfect chest. She'd known about the Mark of Cain, of course she had. She wasn't stupid, and there were plenty of demons willing to spill all of Crowley's secrets either under the knife, or simply for the right incentive.

She'd sent in over two hundred minor demons to capture Crowley when he emerged from the Atlantic with the precious First Blade, seized the prize and sent Crowley screaming back down into the cold dark depths.

Setting the trap for Dean Winchester had been easy in comparison, the Blade itself being the bait. She'd revelled in the glorious sight of Dean bound and bloody. His arm was a shredded mess, the Mark obliterated as per her orders. Her stupid demon henchmen had gotten carried away and both Dean's legs were broken. You just couldn't get the staff these days. Dean was propped up against some crates, his breathing harsh and laboured. Some might have questioned the need for the extra ropes binding his arms to bared torso, but Abaddon wasn't taking any chances. The First Blade lay in two pieces next to the fallen hunter, a symbol of his failure. The poor, foolish boy had never even managed to lay a hand on that ancient deadly bone.

Abaddon smiled, a bright red slash. She had taken the risk and won the best prize of all.

The extensive damage to Dean's body was more than she'd anticipated, which was unfortunate, but it didn't really matter, as Abaddon was more than capable of carrying out some repairs once she was in possession of that handsome form. The additional time she'd have to put aside for that was an irritation, though the blazing defiance in those pained green eyes was some consolation. Dean Winchester was doomed to be endlessly amusing to her, hopeless as he was.

Forcing those lovely lips wide and sliding herself inside was every bit the wonderfully satisfying experience that Abaddon had anticipated. Dean's psyche was deliciously damaged, but his soul still burned brighter than the heart of the sun as the Knight of Hell chased it into hiding.

By the time anyone found out what had happened, Dean was long gone, securely locked away inside Abaddon's new oh-so-pretty meat suit.

0x0x0x0

Dean was overdue. Which was one tiny step away from _missing_, _lost_, _gone_.

"Fuck."

Sam didn't want to be worried. He really didn't want to care, just like Dean believed that he didn't care. He knew he'd been hurting Dean by keeping his distance, but Sam had to. It was self-preservation as much as anything, building a wall between them, a veneer of professionalism that allowed Sam to keep functioning. It seemed to Sam that this was better than just walking away again, though sometimes he wondered what it was doing to them both to live this way.

In the olden days, Sam had had deep reserves of anger to draw on, but those had long since been drained – leeched away by the consequences of wrong decisions, too many deaths, two hundred years sharing a cage with the Devil and the loss of too much of himself. After Castiel reeled out the last essence of Gadreel, Sam realised he didn't know who Sam Winchester was any more. Telling Dean he was willing to work with him as a hunting partner and nothing more made perfect sense to Sam at the time.

Even though Sam was the first to acknowledge that it wasn't working. He should have known it wouldn't. Even when he'd been soulless he'd been Dean's brother. Sam needed Dean in too many ways, right and wrong, and it wasn't something he could switch off.

Now Dean was overdue, Crowley was still AWOL, Cas had done one of his disappearing acts again and yes, fuck it all, Sam was concerned. So when Castiel turned up on the bunker's metaphorical doorstep looking even more flustered and rumpled than usual, Sam's anxiety ramped up into Def. Con 1.

"Sam! It's Dean." Castiel's first words, delivered without the formality of a greeting, set Sam's heart racing. Sure enough, Castiel's news was even more dire than Sam had anticipated. "That job was a trap. Abaddon was there waiting with a troop of demons, and now she has taken him."

"Where? Is he hurt?" Sam demanded. He clenched his fists, a litany of self-recrimination starting up inside his head that nearly drowned out Castiel's next words. He should never have let Dean take that case alone.

"Not hurt any more , no. It's worse than that. Abaddon is possessing him. She destroyed his protection and …"

Sam turned away, no longer listening. Dean, possessed. A tiny part of Sam could see the irony in that, but the larger part was consumed with a welcome growing rage. That demon bitch was violating his brother, and Sam was not going to stand for it. He didn't know how he was going to kill her without the First Blade, and with Abaddon now effectively wearing the Mark of Cain, but Sam would find a way.

He had to.

0x0x0x0

Castiel hadn't stayed long at the Bunker after delivering his bad news. Possibly because Sam had been insupportably rude to him when the angel had admitted there was nothing he could do to help Sam rescue Dean. After suffering the following few hours of being ignored, Cas had given up on Sam and fled, presumably to continue his quest for allies amongst the Fallen to join him in the battle against Metatron. Sam neither knew nor cared. The angel was as much use to him as a wooden stake against a vampire.

Sam's head ached viciously after nine hours pouring over tome after tome, each one dustier than the last, and coming up with precisely nothing. He couldn't believe that the Men of Letters' library didn't have something somewhere that would tell him how to tackle a Knight of Hell without damaging its meat-suit and without the First Blade, but if there was something, Sam couldn't find it. The only thing all the texts agreed upon was that the power required to take out a Knight was considerable and rare. In the hierarchy of Hell, the knights ranked so high only Lucifer stood above them. And as Sam well knew, Lucifer was safely locked away, no longer a player in this great game.

Sam rolled his shoulders back, wincing as the vertebrae in his neck crunched audibly. He'd grown stiff from hunching over the table for so long. He couldn't remember when he last ate or drank anything, and now the thought was in his head, his stomach protested loudly. He got up and headed for the kitchen, only to stop dead in the doorway.

Thinking about empty spaces inside of him in juxtaposition with the uncomfortable memories of Lucifer, Sam was suddenly reminded of Castiel's removal of the last of Gadreel's grace from Sam's body. Castiel had been pretty adamant it was Gadreel, not anyone else, but now Sam was wondering. What if Gadreel's wasn't the only angelic remnant tucked away inside of Sam? What if there was some tiny scrap of a much more powerful grace nestled deep down, being nurtured by Sam's darkness? What if Lucifer had left Sam a parting gift from his time as the vessel of an archangel?

And what if Sam could use that gift - how powerful would Sam be with even a mere spark of the Morning Star at his fingertips?

The thought made him feel simultaneously weak at the knees and full of excitement. He was sure he'd seen a passage in one of the books he'd been studying a couple of hours back, a snippet that had mentioned the possibility of humans tapping into angelic grace. He'd skimmed over it at the time because it hadn't seemed relevant or even feasible…oh shit. He needed to find that book and check the text again.

All thoughts of mundane sustenance forgotten, Sam almost ran back into the library, rummaging through the haphazard piles of leather bound books he'd left scattered on and around the reading desk. It took him nearly an hour, but he finally located the right volume and the passage he was looking for. It was an obscure eighteenth century treatise on angelic lore, with a commentary on the Book of Enoch and the Jewish Kabbalah, and when Sam had picked it up earlier, he'd dismissed it as being merely pretentious mysticism. He supposed he should have known better. After all, if it had no credibility, why would the Men of Letters have kept a copy?

He ran a finger over the tiny print, reading the text twice to make sure he'd understood the meaning correctly. Now he knew what he was looking for, it seemed pretty clear.

Sam sat back in the wooden chair, rocking it onto its back legs. He ignored the ominous creaking of the wood under the pressure as he thought this through.

If Dean had been here, he'd be telling Sam this was dumb, crazy even, and it wasn't worth the risk. _We all know where too much power leads, Sammy, and it's nowhere good._ But if Dean _had_ been here, Sam wouldn't need to even contemplate trying this, so fuck that. Besides, Dean was the one who'd stuffed Sam full of another angel without asking, and thus inadvertently given Sam the information he needed now to make this plan work.

"So how about that, Dean? I can't forget what you did, but it looks like the consequences are going to just keep rolling…but this time it might actually work to our benefit."

He stood up, decision made. He had work to do.

0x0x0x0

Abaddon was enjoying her new body. She had put her empty Josie meat suit into cold storage in a rare moment of sentimentality; after all, Josie had served her well over a good many years, and was a pretty carcass to boot, it would be a shame to waste it. She certainly wouldn't allow some lesser demon to casually walk around in Josie, that's for sure. So it was store or destroy.

She moved her court to the west coast, eventually settling in Los Angeles. Partly because she liked the irony inherent in the name, and partly because it really was a demon's paradise of a place, chock full of abject poverty alongside obscene wealth, vanity, greed and every other vice known to man and demon.

Abaddon healed Dean's legs and his arm, and let scabs form over the wrecked tattoo. Whenever the opportunity arose, she would pause to admire his naked form in the full-length mirror in her penthouse suite. She liked to trace the path of his new scars, see the marks that bore witness to her occupation of that smooth pale skin. She loved to hear Dean's wordless protests and feel his disgust when she ran her fingers down his almost hairless chest to stroke his flaccid penis into arousal, and she would always allow Dean to feel the overwhelming pleasure orgasm brought his body, so he could appreciate what he was missing.

She had Dean's nipples pierced, because playing with the new silver rings was such fun. She was contemplating adding a Prince Albert when the first news filtered through from Kansas to disturb her equilibrium. Someone was killing her foot soldiers in droves, burning the dead life out of them with holy fire, and whoever or whatever it was seemed to be headed her way. At the same time, information reached her that Sam Winchester had announced his intention of hunting her down and taking his brother back.

"Good luck with that, Sammy," she said, grinning at Dean's muted howl of outrage. _I'm the only one who gets to call him that._ "But I _am_ you, Dean, darling. So suck it up."

At first, Abaddon wasn't concerned. Sam Winchester was no threat to her without Blade or Mark at his disposal. And this mysterious angel or angels would be dealt with, like all the other flightless, featherless, pathetic excuses for seraphim that crossed her path. That was her thinking, when she bothered to consider it at all, until the day the mystery demon-slayer sent her a message she couldn't ignore.

The demon knelt before her, blood dripping in a slow counterpoint to his frantic words.

"Then he…Winchester, he lit up like St Elmo's fire and smote everyone in the room, angel and demon alike, he just didn't care. It was like nothing I've ever seen."

Abaddon tapped Dean's short fingernails on the arms of her chair. It was at times like this when she missed Josie's red talons.

She mused. This was like nothing this minor demon had ever seen, maybe, but he was only four, maybe five centuries old. Abaddon, on the other hand, had a few millennia under her belt and she _had_ seen something like this before, in the good old days, when their lord and master walked amongst them, creating them, corrupting them. The Star of Morning, beautiful and terrible as the heart of the sun.

Somehow, Sam Winchester must have harnessed some of Lucifer's power. How was largely irrelevant. Right now Abaddon was more concerned with the fact that the attention of this new, improved and highly dangerous weapon was being focussed on her, and that was highly inconvenient.

"I haven't spent all this time and effort getting Crowley out of the way, marshalling my troops in order to return Hell to its proper state, and beginning to make a true Hell on earth, just to have some overinvested _human_ mess everything up because I took his brother away."

She paused to think. Then she nodded, decision made.

"Very well. It's a shame, but this body will have to go. You, vacate that meat suit you are in, and fetch me Josie out of the fridge. We are going to pay a visit to an old friend."

0x0x0x0

It was cold.

That was the first conscious thought Dean had before he opened his eyes. The second was the jolting realisation that he had managed that action himself – he had motor control of his eyelids again.

He sat up, thus demonstrating that it wasn't just his eyelids that were his own again, but he didn't have much chance to fully appreciate his freedom from Abaddon's domination. His body objected to his sitting up too quickly and he was rewarded with a wave of dizziness that sent him falling backwards, his head smacking into what felt like concrete or stone with a crack that had him seeing sparks.

"Fuck!"

When he moved again, he did so with a lot more caution, taking his time. He surveyed his surroundings with growing wariness as he slowly rose into a crouch, and then stood up, holding onto the rough stone wall to steady himself as he did so. So, stone not concrete, and it was no wonder he was feeling the chill, as he was stark naked. He threw up a hand and yelled a protest at the blank walls.

"Man. What is it with the clothes? Would it kill you to give a guy something to fucking wear?"

He didn't know who he was complaining to, but his sense of outrage needed to be expressed. Unsurprisingly, he didn't get a response. Silence surrounded him as thoroughly as the stone walls of the cave he seemed to have ended up in. Which brought him to the crux of the matter. Where the hell was he, where had Abaddon disappeared to, and how did he get here? And more importantly, how was he going to get out when there didn't seem to be any exits or entrances to this roughly spherical-shaped chamber?

He put up a hand to rub at the sore patch on the back of his skull where he'd whacked it against the floor and started when it brushed up against something unexpected round his neck on its way up to his head. The alien something felt like leather. It was supple and smooth under his questing fingers, a broad band maybe four inches wide circling his throat. A collar.

"What the…?"

As items of clothing went, it was worse than useless. He tugged and picked at it but there was no fastening or seam that he could discover. It had less than a finger's worth of give between it and his skin, and the only interruptions to the smooth surface were four metal rings embedded into the leather set at equidistant intervals round the circumference. Dean did not like the implications one little bit.

"So, what, you brought me here to be some sort of slave, is that it?"

Dean waited, but there was still no sign that anyone was listening, or that anyone was even remotely interested in him. The cave was dimly lit, though he couldn't work out the source of the light, and the damp walls seemed to absorb his words as soon as they were spoken.

There must be something he was missing, some reason he'd been brought here and left so completely alone.

He remembered Abaddon possessing him. Then there had been a lot of very unpleasant and uncomfortable days watching, trapped and helpless, as she used his body to maim and kill for pleasure, and Dean remembered far too much of that. Something had happened after a few more days of this though, and he wasn't sure what it was, because after receiving news about a massacre of demons, Abaddon had walled him up so tight, he'd effectively been deaf and blind as well as dumb for who knew how long.

Until he'd woken up here. He wasn't sure this was an improvement. At least while trapped inside his head he hadn't been cold. And hungry. As if to confirm the latter, his stomach gave a gurgle that was so loud it echoed. Something or someone snorted a laugh from behind him. He spun around so fast it re-awoke the dizziness of earlier, and instead of smoothly dropping into the planned fighting crouch, Dean nearly face-planted onto the floor. Flushing with embarrassed anger, Dean found himself on his hands and knees, nose to nose with a _very_ large wolf. Which wasn't at all worrying.

The wolf huffed at him, its breath warm and moist and strangely sweet-smelling. Dean skittered backwards still on all fours, wishing he had a weapon. He'd never felt so naked. He rose to his feet, resisting the urge to cup his junk. As if a hand would be any protection in these circumstances. The wolf was nearly as tall as Dean from paw to shoulder, which meant that its head was around Sam's height, and that Dean had to tilt his head to look it in the eye. Its fur was thick and lush, strangely marked in extremes of white and black, while its eyes were the colour of glaciers.

"Whoa, back up there, Dog Breath," he said. The wolf bared its formidable teeth at that, and growled, a deep rumble that Dean could feel vibrating through the earthen floor into the soles of his feet. He swallowed but held his ground, trying to stand tall and pretend he wasn't scared shitless. He was shaking because of the cold, that was all.

"Okay, you ain't a dog, I get it. So, what are you then? And how'd you get in here?"

The wolf just stared, transfixing Dean with that icy blue gaze that reminded him a little of Cas. And there was a thought that he should have had earlier. Maybe Angel Radio worked down here and Cas could…but then he hesitated. After all, look what happened last time he tried calling for angelic help. He couldn't help the shiver that ran through him at the memory of Gadreel staring out of Sam's eyes, and once he started remembering he found it impossible to stop. He flung a hand out to grab the wall. His whole body was trembling so violently he was hard put to stay upright.

"F..f..fuck, must look like a plate of j..jello in an earthquake, hey?"

The wolf made a questioning whining noise, more doglike than wolf, and then it was pushing up into Dean's space and he was too weak to do anything to defend himself. Luckily all it seemed interested in doing was - well - _snuggling_ was the only word that sprang to mind. Not that he wasn't grateful for the warmth being offered, as his legs finally gave out from under him. He slid gracelessly to the floor half propped up on the wolf's back. Too weary to maintain his usual innate caution, Dean allowed the giant wolf to wrap itself around him like a giant, fanged, fur stole. He didn't even notice when he drifted from waking into a deep sleep, warm at last.

0x0x0x0

What had Jimmy said? That having Castiel inside him had been like riding a comet. Sam should have taken heed of that before setting off on this journey, because this wasn't merely riding a comet, this was being one.

Lucifer's grace was a song of ice and fire.

_Dude, you've been watching way too much Game of Thones_, came Dean's voice inside Sam's head; and if Sam hadn't been in so much agony at the time, he'd have laughed. The worst thing wasn't the pain. No. The worst thing was that it was a pain that he knew. He _remembered_ this.

Bone deep, flesh eating, brain numbing cold that burned from the inside out.

Sam didn't want to recall what had inevitably accompanied that cold back then – the eternal lack of privacy, the boredom interspersed with torture when one or the other of the archangels had turned their searing attention onto either Sam or Adam or both at once, the constant lingering guilt when he'd been unable to save his little brother from torn apart one too many times and Sam had been left embracing a gibbering wreck of a body whose soul had simply faded away like a shadow in fog.

He especially didn't want to remember how much he had longed for his own soul to be able to find the same escape.

Sam wasn't sure how long it was before the cold subsided into a mere chill and the memories of the Cage began to abate with it. However long, it was too long.

The ritual itself had been suspiciously easy, there hadn't even been any bleeding required, either from him or from anyone else. So that was already a step up from Ruby's demon blood fix, and made Sam feel a little better about trying the whole procedure. Just a few simple herbal ingredients mixed and burnt in a sliver bowl and a short passage of Enochian, and Sam had felt the grace begin to unfurl immediately.

None of the texts he'd found had described how it would feel, perhaps because nobody really knew. After all, Sam doubted that many humans had ever survived an angel inhabitation, let alone wanted to relive the sensation. Yet at least one person had tried and succeeded, and lived long enough afterwards to write down this ritual, and that had been enough for Sam.

When he finally opened his eyes, hours, maybe days later, Sam's throat was raw and he wondered if he'd been screaming. Just as well the bunker was empty and shielded, if so, or any passer by might have called the cops.

His stomach rumbled loudly.

"Guess angel grace without an actual angel isn't enough to stop me getting hungry, then."

Or stop him talking to himself like a regular crazy person either, it would seem. He stood up slowly, expecting more pain, maybe a wave of weakness. It didn't come. Apart from the pretty severe hunger pangs, he felt good. Very good in fact.

In the kitchen, he couldn't wait long enough to cook anything, just raided the giant 1950s SMEG fridge for whatever was to hand and spent the next half hour stuffing his face. Man, he was ravenous. He was eating like twenty-year old Dean after a sex marathon. He felt one hundred per cent like himself, though, which was a relief. Even though there was nothing to indicate that a remnant of Lucifer's grace would contain anything of Lucifer's personality, Sam had been afraid that awakening the grace might lead to him losing something. Losing himself again.

_Stupid risk, Sammy_, the Dean in his head was saying.

"Shut up, jerk. At least it was my choice this time, hey?"

Even inside Sam's head, Dean's silence held a world of hurt.

He didn't like to admit how very scared he had been, because that would have made the Dean in his head right and turn this into such a stupid, dick move. But now it had worked, so clearly it had been the right thing to do. If it helped him find and free Dean.

And there was the kicker. Two days later and having this thin coating of remaindered grace _wasn't_ helping. It gave Sam something extra, yes, but so far it wasn't enough. It was like eating but never feeling full; Dean would probably have said it was a burger bun with relish but no actual meat. Having grace did come with perks, though. For instance, Sam's initial feeling of physical well-being didn't fade, in fact it got stronger. This was the best physical shape he'd been in since he'd been all juiced up on demon blood but, thankfully, this felt cleaner.

Sam was starting to appreciate how Castiel must have felt walking round without his own grace, naked and powerless, or must be feeling now perhaps, fuelled as he was with a borrowed grace.

It was that last thought that made Sam pause, angel blade in hand.

He'd been hunting for several days, testing his limits. Lucifer's grace had opened his eyes and he could spot a demon or a fallen angel in a crowd now. He had been making good use of that ability by capturing stray demons and questioning them. Sam had learned to be ruthless under Ruby's tutelage and it wasn't something easily forgotten. Sam without his soul had done things too, and Sam knew that just because his soul had been trapped in the Cage and his body walking round without it, Sam Winchester had still done those things, nobody else, no matter what Dean said about it. He was well aware that Dean liked to cling to the idea that his little brother was the innocent, compassionate one, but Dean had always been a little delusional when it came to his family, and a lot blind when it came to Sam.

The angel currently under Sam's blade dripped light onto the dull concrete floor. The still air inside the warehouse smelled of ozone and spilt gasoline and it reminded Sam a little of the Impala. Sam had been using his newfound abilities to avoid angels, but this one had sought him out, he still didn't know why. She'd come at him full of righteous rage with her angel blade flashing, and it had been sheer luck that Sam had a small vial of holy oil in one of his pockets – it had been enough to distract her for long enough to allow Sam to bind her. It had Sam speculating whether a faction of the Fallen was somehow allied with the Knight of Hell. Angel politics was crazy enough for anything.

The angel moaned, bringing Sam's attention back to the matter in hand. Namely, that this angel clearly knew nothing about where Abaddon was, or how Sam would be able to extract Dean from her clutches, and Sam had been inches away from sticking the useless creature with the pointy end and finishing it off, when that thought about borrowed grace had stuck in his head and refused to go away.

Sam watched as the wounds he'd carved into this angel's vessel sluggishly bled human blood mixed with grace, and wondered how Castiel had done it. How had he stolen that other angel's grace?

"What are you waiting for, human? I didn't think you cared for our vessels, from what I've heard…"

Sam cut off the angel's taunting by grabbing the vessel's hair and pulling her head backwards, exposing the long line of vulnerable throat. Experimentally, Sam drew a thin line across the taut skin near the base of her neck, smiling as the flesh parted easily as silk under the silver blade. White light began to bleed out as wound widened like a mouth, and Sam leaned down to seal his lips over the gaping slit in an obscene parody of a kiss.

Her grace entered his body like breath, burned its way inside him like cold fire and he gasped as the new grace met with his own, two branches of lightning meeting and merging, firing every neuron in his brain in a massive surge of electricity. It was everything and nothing like the demon blood hits. It was everything and nothing like dying. It was falling off a cliff and finding you can fly.

Sam woke up flat on his back staring at the naked iron girders that form the warehouse ceiling. Someone was sobbing. He didn't think it was him.

He sat up in one easy motion. The joined graces writhed around each other then settled, smooth and strong. He could feel how his own self was woven together with the grace; filaments of light threaded through him, making him feel gravity had lessened, just a little, just enough to allow him to float for a moment or two. Not quite flying, not this time, more like allowing seawater to buoy him up, take some of the load.

The angel was crying. No, Sam thought. Not the angel any more, but its vessel. Holy crap, she was still alive.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Sam was galvanised into action, quickly untying the girl while trying to assess the damage he'd inflicted on her. Miraculously, her wounds were not bleeding too badly. It seems he hadn't cut so deeply. Either that, or her angelic resident had already begin the healing process before Sam so rudely interrupted it by extracting the grace. In fact, the only cut that was still bleeding was the last, the one in her throat.

Without thinking, Sam pressed his palm over the cut in her skin and allowed the grace to flow.

He didn't linger to see if the girl was grateful for her healing.

0x0x0x0

Two weeks later and Sam was standing in yet another anonymous warehouse, knee deep in the dead and dying. _Just another day in the office, darling._ His angel blade dripped with red this time, the sulphuric stench of so much demon blood leaving him unmoved. Deep down, Sam still felt a frisson of relief every time he shed demon blood without any consequence, other than the satisfaction of terminating some evil son of a bitch.

Maybe, just maybe, he could finally allow himself the luxury of believing he was clean.

He was getting frustratingly close to Abaddon, but close was no cigar. Fuck, he really had to stop thinking in clichés all the time. He was in danger of turning into a pantomime villain.

He turned his attention back to the minor demon he had pinned to the wall. The one thing Sam did regret about the loss of his demon blood issues was his inability to expel a demon without harming the host body. This demon was possessing a skinny youth, probably no more than fourteen. The kid should be down the Mall with his stupid buddies, trying to buy Alco pops and cigarettes, not squirming and screaming under the touch of angel fire. _But, it is what it is_, Sam thought as he brought his hand up again, ready to deliver the killer burst that would burn this evil son of a bitch out of its contemptible existence.

"Wait! Wait! I've got information, I have!" It was pleading and Sam lowered his hand, a sceptical expression on his face.

"You said you couldn't tell me where Abaddon is, so what other information can you offer that is worth your miserable life?"

"I can't tell you where Abaddon is, no. But I do know where your brother is." The fucking thing actually smirked when Sam started. He tried to compose his expression, but it was hard not to look too eager, especially after so long without any leads of any kind. Also, what the hell did it mean? How could Dean be somewhere other than where Abaddon was? Unless…

"Yeah, that's right, she's ditched his pretty meat suit and gone retro again, back wearing that 1950s redhead. You've got her worried with all your smiting and wrath and such, so she's stashed your big brother away where you can't reach him, hoping…"

"Hoping I'll waste my time searching for him instead of going after her." Sam finished the line of thought for the demon. It made sense; it was classic distraction tactics, and of course she was right. Sam had to find Dean first.

"It's a delaying tactic at best," he said, musing out loud, while the demon watched him warily through the frightened teenager's watering eyes. "She must know after I've got Dean back, I'll be coming for her."

Sam honed back in on the demon, who gave a very gratifying flinch under the weight of Sam's gaze.

"Where is he?"

0x0x0x0

"Where am I? Who the hell are you, and why won't you show yourselves?"

Dean was getting a little hoarse from shouting, but he refused to just lie down and wait for his only regular visitor, the fucking magic wolf, to decide it didn't want a snuggle buddy after all, and would rather try a tasty man-sized snack instead. This cave - chamber, prison cell, whatever you wanted to call it – was sealed up tighter than Bobby's liquor cabinet when they'd been kids. Dean had been over every inch of wall and floor, and even the ceiling as far as he could reach, and there wasn't the tiniest crack or fissure to indicate an entrance or exit. It was like Merlin's cave without the added benefits of a sexy witch, and yeah, he'd read T H White, though he'd never admit it to Sam.

When he'd woken up that first time to find the wolf had gone, he'd have dismissed it as a dream if is wasn't for the smell of dog that lingered in his nostrils, and the fact that his shirt was covered with short white hairs that certainly were not his. He wasn't that decrepit yet, thank you very much. He had also woken up ravenously hungry, which he took to be a sign that he was recovering from the after effects of having Abaddon ride him hard and put him up wet. And that was an image he wanted to scrub from his brain as soon as possible.

At least whoever his jailers were, they were feeding him on a regular basis. He'd started measuring the time passing by the number of meals that appeared out of nowhere. It was difficult to measure any other way as the light never changed to indicate whether it was night or day, and his frustration levels were increasing as time passed. Though Dean no longer hoped that his brother would be searching for him, not after Purgatory, he hated the thought that Sam was out there somewhere, fighting on alone.

And now that Abaddon was out of his system, he could feel the Mark.

While the Knight of Hell had been riding him, she must have been preventing Cain's scar from healing itself, because every day since he'd woken up here, when Dean looked at his forearm, the jagged scar tissue from the damage Abaddon's minions had inflicted to destroy the Mark was fading in a way that was completely and disturbingly unnatural. Every day the shape of the Mark was that little bit more distinct.

He paced from one side of the chamber to the other, the Mark sending a constant buzzing though his veins that stopped him relaxing, even for a second. He hadn't been able to sleep for the last two nights – or for two visits of the wolf, which was his measure of a night.

He rubbed one palm across his face, feeling the rasp of stubble that should have been a full beard by now, if his counting was right. Nothing here made much sense, so he didn't know why this stupid little detail bothered him so much, not when there were so many other things to worry about, but yeah, the lack of hair growth bothered him more than the lack of clothing. Really, the issue of shaving or not shaving should be a minor concern, but it niggled at him as one anomaly too many.

Not Purgatory, not Hell. He didn't think this was Heaven, though now Metatron was in charge who knew what you'd find when you entered the Pearly Gates these days. Not earth, unless it was a part of earth where normal rules had no meaning and… oh my god, now he was remembering Broward County and that was not a good memory to be having right now. Or any time.

What the fuck was this place?

He opened his mouth to yell again and nearly brained himself on a rocky outcrop when a voice from immediately behind pre-empted him.

"Welcome to Helvíti, mortal. I'm Hel."

0x0x0x0

"He's not in Hell, I've kept an eye on that and I have sources there now," Sam said, though he couldn't help the chill that ran through him hearing the demon's words. His grip on the demon's scrawny neck tightened and its voice grew shriller and more urgent as it struggled.

"Please! No, not in Hell, it's not what you think. He's in Hel's place of punishment; it's sometimes called Helvíti, or Helheim."

Sam relaxed a little, allowing the demon to breathe again.

"Tell me everything and I might let you live," he said.

The demon spilled, but Sam killed it anyway. It was spineless and obsequious and had outlived its usefulness, though he did spare a thought for the kid as he burned both meat suit and demon from the inside out with purifying fire. Hopefully once Cas had sorted Heaven's business out the dead vessel's soul would find peace in whatever new, reconstituted version of Paradise followed Metatron's one-angel-only rule.

Sam wiped the greasy soot off his hand with a grimace of distaste. Although death by angel fire was relatively clean, he found that sometimes that unpleasant burnt smell could linger for hours.

Helvíti. Sam knew a little but not enough. He was going to have to do some serious research because Abaddon was right about one thing. Sam would move Heaven and Earth and any realm in between to get Dean back this time. This time there was no corrupting demon blood to cloud his judgement, no overwhelming terror of an unbearable loss to send him hurtling over the edge into despair. This time he was strong, Hail Sam, full of grace.

He would not make the same mistakes again.

0x0x0x0

Dean spun round so fast his dick bounced and slapped into his thigh with an audible thwack, reminding him he was bare-ass naked. He'd been there so long he'd almost gotten used to having everything dangling in the non-existent wind. The wolf certainly didn't care.

It appeared that the woman who had so suddenly materialised inside Dean's personal space might not be bothered about Dean's exposure either, as her piercing gaze captured his and never wavered downwards. Which actually wounded Dean's pride, just a little. She was almost as tall as him, her skin so pale it was almost a blue-white, like their Mom's favourite bone china Dean remembered from the high shelf in the kitchen he couldn't reach. She wasn't conventionally pretty, her face was too long, her brows dark and thick, and her mouth a little too wide and stern. Her hair was long and strangely streaked jet black and albino white, and those eyes were stunning, just like…oh.

"You're the wolf!" Dean blurted, then blushed. Now realisation had dawned, he was even more embarrassed that he hadn't recognised those ice-blue eyes straightaway. He manfully resisted the urge to cover his junk; after all, she'd seen it all before.

The woman, (Hel? What kind of a name is that?) frowned. Shit. Dean hoped she wasn't too pissed. He'd become accustomed to the wolf, almost to the extent of feeling friendly towards it – come on, it was the only company he'd had for what must be weeks, a guy's entitled to get attached. But this version of it was clearly supernatural and Dean had to take a step back and get his head in the game before he ended up dead. Again.

Besides, he was angry. He didn't like being toyed with and he'd been left alone without answers for far too long.

"I am Hel," she repeated, "daughter of Loki, and this is my realm."

Her expression was clearly saying that Dean should recognise the significance of her name, which if he were a giant geek-brain like Sam, or maybe Kevin, he would have. Being more a man of action, Dean did not have a fucking clue who she was. What he did know was that he'd landed here when Abaddon had dumped his ass, so it was highly unlikely she or her weird name meant anything good. Even though a tiny portion of Dean's brain was busy pointing out that no harm had been done to him since his arrival – well, other than the whole keeping him locked in solitary confinement with only a wolf for company until he was literally climbing the walls to get out of there. Climbing had got him nothing but a few spectacular bruises, several broken fingernails and a long scrape down his left thigh, by the way.

He took a step back and tensed. The Mark burned like a fresh brand and he felt the whiskey-flow of adrenaline buzzing through his veins.

"What do you want? Why are you keeping me here? What are you? And where the fuck are my clothes?"

"So many questions, mortal, so impatient."

She made a small gesture, and Dean couldn't help letting out a small gasp when the stone walls that had surrounded him for so long just dissolved into nothing. He looked around the wide, open space he found himself in, immediately alert and scanning for exits, but of course, typical Dean Winchester luck, there looked to be as little chance of getting out of this place as the last. Not least because the collar around his neck, that he'd almost forgotten about, was finally being put to use.

Four slender, silver chains ran through each of the four rings in the collar, and he could see that each chain was tethered to a tall, carved wooden pillar. The pillars appeared to be supporting the high arched roof of a timber framed hall, so vast and dimly lit that it was hard to make out its extremities.

It looked like fucking Edoras, and Dean half expected to see a bunch of Rohirrim come striding in demanding mead, or maybe Gandalf waving his fancy staff. He was a little disappointed to find the hall just as empty as his previous prison had been, just him and Hel.

"Peachy," he muttered, as he grabbed at one of the chains and yanked on it. Fucker was stronger than it looked. Of course it was.

"You cannot break these chains, Dean Winchester. Even when you cannot see them," again Hel made a gesture and Dean was free to move again, "they are still there." And sure enough, Dean could feel the cool metal between his fingers when he touched the rings on the collar, though there seemed to be plenty of slack in the now invisible tethers.

"Well this is great. Now I have a different set of walls to look at. How's about you just let me out of here, lady, and we can call it quits. I've got a demon and a rogue angel to kill."

"Ah yes, Abaddon. She told me to keep you here."

Dean opened his mouth but whatever arguments he might have made went unspoken as Hel continued.

"But I don't like being told what to do. So. I have a gift for you."

Dean blinked and swayed on his feet. Hel was holding out her hand, and though he could have sworn it had been empty seconds before, her fingers now gripped the First Blade. Whole and unbroken and singing to him louder than any siren.

0x0x0x0

The motel room in the Eco Lodge in Carson National Forest, New Mexico looked like a hunter's convention. Or maybe a crazed serial killer's den. The walls were covered in postcards and scraps of paper, and pins were jabbed in everywhere, linked with red string. But if Sam was honest, it was all pretty meaningless.

Storming Helvíti would require some serious juice. That was the main, and not entirely unexpected, finding from Sam's research. He had two choices that he could see.

The first was to gather an army to support his invasion. He pondered long and hard, and eventually he called Castiel, who turned up within three hours having been only one state away from Sam's current location. Cas looked, if that was even possible, even more dishevelled than usual. If Sam hadn't known better, he would have sworn Cas was actually fidgeting while Sam explained his problem.

"I would like to help you, of course, but…" Castiel broke off to tilt his head in that curiously birdlike way he'd never shaken, even when he'd been human. "What have you done, Sam? I detect an active grace in you, yet I removed Gadreel's when I healed you…" He paused again and a peculiar expression crossed his face; part wonder, part concern and a large part terror.

"Oh. Sam."

Cas reached out and touched Sam's cheek very gently with one curious finger, and Sam felt his grace (he thought of it as his own, now, it had been part of him for so many days) uncoil in response to the proximity of another angelic essence. Sam's breathing stuttered, and his heart speeded up, sending his pulse racing in a way that was almost akin to arousal. In the shock of Castiel's touch, Sam was suddenly hyper-aware. He could sense the way Castiel's grace sat uncomfortably inside his vessel, how lightly it was anchored, as if it knew this was not the vessel that it belonged in, and Sam was momentarily tempted to just tug it loose. It would be easy, he could tell. Castiel's stolen grace didn't belong there…

Sam started and pulled away, eyes wide. What the hell was he thinking? He had nearly done it. He had nearly tried to take Castiel's grace.

"Sam, this is very unwise."

_No kidding_, Sam thought, though he knew that nearly consuming Castiel's grace wasn't what Cas was referring to. He wasn't going to argue, because he agreed that tapping into Lucifer's left overs probably wasn't his wisest move, but neither was he ready to get into some sort of deep heart to heart about it with Dean's angel. Cas didn't really care about Sam, and he'd made it crystal clear he had other axes to grind, battles to fight, whatever cliché you wanted to throw in to say _no, not going to help you, Sam Winchester._

And that was fine, because Sam had other resources this time. No need to turn to demons for help – not the missing Crowley, or dead Ruby and her dead blood. This time Sam had a built in plan B, and though he balked at taking Castiel's grace, he wouldn't hesitate to suck dry the next angel unwise enough to cross his path.

Most angels were just dicks without wings anyway.

Sam almost giggled at that, but restrained himself until after Castiel had left in his ridiculously ugly Cadillac he'd insisted on keeping.

Before the growling of the ancient engine had faded into the distance, Sam was preparing to hunt an angel.

0x0x0x0

The Blade never stopped calling him.

Hel came and went. Sometimes she was in her human shape and spoke to Dean, sometimes she came as the wolf and just lay with him like she'd used to, when he was in the cave. Sometimes there were other people, some humanoid, some definitely not. In this realm of hers, the hall seemed to be something of a public place where folk gathered, though Dean had no clue what they were getting together for. There was a big central fire that never died down or needed stoking, which was one possible attraction, especially if the rest of this Helvíti place was always this fucking freezing, but other than that, there didn't seem to be anything to draw people in. Hel never hosted any feasting or held court, or did any of those things that Dean had seen movie rulers doing that would bring in a crowd. So yeah, sue him, he'd watched Camelot a few times.

And her subjects gave Dean the creeps. Hel sat with him once, in her human form, and pointed out each different species, and Dean supposed Sam would have lapped it all up, if he hadn't already known it all, the huge geek that he was. But Dean could only remember that the ugly short ones were Dökkálfar, the zombies were Dolgar and the Heiptir were the nasty ones who liked to whip the corpses of the damned (the Náir) with thorns. Oh and that there were apparently for real venomous, fire-breathing dragons here, though he hadn't seen one yet. Thankfully. It was bad enough that Hel would often appear with a small flock of red-eyed ravens that got their kicks pecking out the eyes of the few unlucky screaming human souls who had turned up in the Hall that day.

So far Hel had done nothing to Dean, aside from keeping him chained and naked and on public display, that is. Let's face it, she didn't need to do anything more to torture him than to leave Cain's cursed blade within his reach. The background hum from the ancient bone set up a constant ache inside Dean's blood that he couldn't ignore, no matter what he did to distract himself.

After a while, he could no longer remember why he was resisting. This wasn't Hell, after all. The First Blade wasn't Alastair's knife, and wielding it wouldn't break any seals or damn him for all eternity. No more so than he was already, anyhow.

When he finally picked up the Blade, the silver chains shattered.

0x0x0x0

Sam burned brighter than the heart of a star as he stepped across the threshold of Helvíti. Grace dripped from his fingertips, leaked from the corners of his eyes in silver tears. Perhaps drinking down that last shining grace had been unnecessary; excessive even. The angel, he thought her name had been Adriel, had come to him, as had several others in the last few days, solely to offer themselves to him. Somehow word had spread amongst the Fallen that the Son of Light needed their help, their sacrifice, and some of the newly homeless angels seemed to crave that self-immolation. Sam smiled and called them his Martyrs. They appeared to like that label, wore it with pride even when it left them even lower than the Fallen, angels stripped of not only their wings but of their grace. So when Adriel offered, Sam thought it would have been rude to refuse.

Sam wasn't sure what he was now – a human with grace, some new kind of angel? He kind of liked that the Fallen called him Son of Light, though they had learned not to do it to his face. Hearing it said out loud made Sam think of all the ways that Dean would have laughed and teased him, and that just made him sad, or angry, or both. Still he'd welcomed his Martyrs and accepted their willing sacrifices, and after the tenth grace had been consumed Sam felt ready to take on the ritual.

He'd opened the door into the Norse version of Hell with an ease that failed to make him wary.

Helvíti was not much like Purgatory, and nothing like the Cage. Sam wondered if this was because Helvíti was Hel's creation, because he couldn't help noticing that Helvíti had almost a homely feel to it in comparison with the other realms. Benefiting from a woman's touch, which was a thought that Jess would have called him on, for being sexist. Of course, Sam's only first hand experience of Hell itself was his brief incursion via Purgatory to rescue Bobby's soul. The rest of his view of Hell was gained from the small things Dean had let slip in his sleep, the nightmares that had gripped his brother for years, only allowing screams to escape.

It would be different this time. This wasn't Hell and this time Sam was coming for Dean.

One thing all three realms had in common though. They were full of monsters.

Sam didn't think he was entirely human any more. He wasn't an angel, he wasn't a man, he didn't know what sort of creature he'd become, but that didn't matter.

Sam was confident, happy in his own skin for the first time in a long time – maybe ever. He was pure at last. Ironically, Lucifer's grace, combined with the other angels', had finally scoured him clean. This was nothing like being possessed, nothing like being high on demon blood. The former had held him prisoner inside his own head, unable to control anything; while the latter had fed his passions, burned through his body like an oil slick set on fire, enraging him and overwhelming his emotions.

This angel grace burned Sam too, but it was cold, just like Lucifer had promised so long ago.

Sam couldn't remember how it had felt to have Gadreel inside him, but he knew there were gaping holes in his memory where the angel had taken him over and used him. It all seemed a long time ago. That didn't matter now, and he'd forgiven Dean for his part in that debacle. After all, if Gadreel hadn't inveigled his way into Sam's body, Sam would never have known about all this potential locked away deep inside him.

Sam smiled and opened his fists. He was nothing but the destructive blaze of a super nova as he worked his way inwards to find his brother.

0x0x0x0

Dean ran a blunt finger over the jagged edge of the teeth embedded in the Blade and flicked wet blood onto the floor. There was a faint groan from one of the unfortunate demons Hel had brought for Dean to practice on, and Dean reacted without a thought, striking swifter than a falcon. The Blade cut effortlessly through the demon's throat, severing its head from its body as though the Blade was a laser instead of an old jawbone. Hel in her wolf form padded out of the shadows where she'd been watching. She nuzzled close to lick the demon blood off Dean's naked thigh.

Dean grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dimly lit hall.

"I'm ready," he said, and Hel growled her acquiescence.

Dean didn't think he was entirely human any more. He wasn't sure what the Blade was turning him into, and to be honest, most days, he didn't really care. Every time he picked it up, he was a step closer to killing Abaddon, and that was all that mattered. He didn't know what he was, but he knew what he wasn't. He was not a demon, and he was not broken, and both of those things were important, though he couldn't always remember why.

Hel called him the Mark, and he was happy with that. It was good to have a name and a purpose, something solid to offset against the nothingness he saw whenever he caught sight of himself in a mirror. There was an empty space by his side that Dean didn't want to think about. Because Sam wasn't looking for him; Sam wouldn't be trying to move heaven and earth to find him because Sam didn't need Dean, not like Dean needed Sam. All those years ago, and Azazel's words, spoken in John Winchester's voice, still resonated, and the pain never went away. Maybe Dean would have forgotten them, except they were true. A year in Purgatory and Sam never looked for him. And Dean understood. He wasn't worth it. Not worthy.

_You'd have done the same thing – No, Dean, I wouldn't._

Echoes and scars and guilt - the only distraction was in the power of the Blade. So Dean kept picking it up, and kept killing with it. It felt good, too good to stop.

And if Sam wouldn't save Dean, then that was okay. Dean just needed to be ready to save himself so he could get out of there and go find his little brother. As long as Dean was alive, whether he was human or the Mark of Cain or something else entirely new, looking after Sammy was his job.

Hel's heavy head lifted and she scented the air. With a smoothness Dean had yet to become accustomed to, she morphed into Hel the woman. Goddess. Whatever. Even in human form she looked as if her hackles were still raised as she grabbed Dean's bicep in a crushing grip.

"My kingdom's walls have been breached. Destruction is coming. You must stop it."

"Abaddon?" Dean was eager. The Knight of Hell had a multitude of dues to pay, and he was more than ready to collect. Then maybe he could go back to Sam having regained a little self-respect.

Hel shook her head. "I don't know, perhaps. Whoever it is, they have already killed two of my Vanar-Drekar. Hurry, my Mark."

Something that could take out one of Hel's dragons of despair must be pretty powerful, but Dean wasn't worried. The Blade didn't make him invulnerable but it did make him almost unstoppable, and yeah, he was even better than Batman now.

Hel pointed him in the right direction and sent him on his way with a kiss on the cheek that could be interpreted in a number of ways. Dean preferred her as a wolf. Any demonstrations of affection were more straightforward when she was an animal.

Dean made his way through the twisting underground passages that led from Hel's hall with the unpronounceable name towards the high walls that formed the boundary between Helvíti and the world of men.

It didn't take him long to find the intruder, he merely followed the sounds of dying and the smell of ozone. Fucking angels. He tightened his grip on the blood-soaked leather handle of the First Blade, and allowed the now familiar beserker fury to wash over him.

He walked out into the battlefield, wreathed in red mist.

0x0x0x0

Wading through the blood of the various races that formed the helbúar, the residents of Helvíti, Sam spun and whirled, angel blades flashing as he wove a deadly net of lightning around him. Many of the creatures here were fantastical and horrific, nothing like the demons or monsters that Sam was used to hunting. There were even freaking dragons, the giant serpent kind with scales and horns and teeth as long as Sam's arm - and wouldn't Dean have just loved that, after the disappointment with the humanoid dragons they'd encountered topside.

Sam shook his head, trying to focus. He couldn't afford to get distracted now, not when he hadn't found Dean yet.

The righteous killing was wearing Sam down. Subtly at first, then more obviously, Sam's reserves of grace were being depleted, and his arms slowed in their deadly dance. Instead of sweat, his pores were leaking light. Perhaps coming here alone hadn't been such a great idea after all.

That was when he saw him. Dean. His brother was striding towards him, and the helbúar were parting in front of Dean, like Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea in that old movie. At least, the body approaching looked like Dean, was wearing Dean's face, but the expression was terrifying, like nothing Sam had ever seen on Dean's features before. There was no sign that Dean recognised him at all, not a flicker.

And this man was wreathed in red. In fact, all he was wearing was that crimson aura; otherwise he was naked save for a leather collar round his neck.

Sam was so taken aback; Dean was nearly on him before Sam registered that the weapon his brother was wielding like an extension of his own arm was the First Blade. Any of Hel's creatures that were too foolish to get out of his way were mown down like grass. Sam raised his own twin blades just in time as the First Blade came down on him with all the weight of their shared past behind it.

It nearly crushed him, that first blow.

Precious seconds were lost as Sam tried to get his head round the fact that Dean was attacking him with venom, that Cain's Mark was blazing on Dean's forearm like living magma, that even now they were so close that Sam could feel the heat rising from Dean's naked skin, Dean still showed no sign of knowing who Sam was. Or who Dean was, for that matter.

"Cristo!" Sam gasped out, as he desperately parried another blow. Dean's eyes didn't slide to black, or yellow, or any other manifestation of a demon that Sam could recognise. They remained slightly narrowed with that familiar focus his brother always showed when fighting. Sam realised he was at a severe disadvantage. He didn't want to harm his brother, so the angel swords were weapons he couldn't really use, all sharp dangerous edges and angles – while Dean was fighting without restraint and with an instrument that could be both sharp and blunt. Something Sam could attest to immediately as Dean feinted, and ducking around Sam's defensive stroke, smashed Sam across the forehead with a wicked backhanded blow. Sam staggered back, momentarily blinded by the rush of blood pouring down his face. Head wounds bled like a bitch and Sam could really have done without that right now.

He could feel his grace puttering like a candle flame in the face of the hurricane that was Dean Winchester, Mark of Cain. He wiped desperately at the blood to clear his view, wondering why Dean hadn't taken advantage of his momentary disability to come in for the kill already. He stumbled dizzy from the blow, and went down onto one knee.

Sam looked up to see Dean standing over him, the Blade lifted shoulder high. In the deathly calm that descended, Sam was Anne Boleyn waiting for the Frenchman's finest steel. He was Ned Stark under his own Valyrian blade. He was –

The Blade dropped in slow motion as Sam watched Dean's face. He wanted his brother to be the last thing that he saw, but more than anything, he wanted Dean to see _him_. Sam felt the jagged yellow teeth touch his taut neck, making the shallowest nick in the fragile skin.

"Sammy?"

Sam bled white light, a thin trickle of grace mixed with the blood running down his collarbone.

"What the fuck?"

Dean's voice was hoarse, like he hadn't used it for months, and for the first time it occurred to Sam to wonder how many days had passed for Dean in the two months that had passed top side since he'd heard Abaddon had dumped Dean's body.

"It's my grace," Sam offered, then grimaced as Dean's face hardened and his brother backed away. The Blade was raised again, but Dean made no move to resume the fight.

"What are you, and where's my brother?"

"It's me, Dean. I am Sam," he almost expected Dean to come back with a line about green eggs and ham, was disappointed when Dean said nothing, his expression tight and disbelieving.

"There's nobody – nothing – else in here, it's just me." Sam got to his feet slowly, his legs still trembling slightly with the rush of adrenaline from nearly dying. Again. You'd have thought he'd have been used to that by now, but somehow, his body reacted to each near death experience like it was something new. He took a deep breath. Hel's realm smelt different from Purgatory, from Hell even from the Cage. Fresher somehow. More earthy, like mulch, and autumn. It helped Sam ground himself. Which was a good thing, as Dean was clearly freaking out.

Sam held his hand out but didn't advance, he didn't want to spook Dean any further. He was counting it as a win that Dean wasn't actually trying to attack him with the Blade any more, but that small comfort dissipated when he heard what his brother was muttering.

"Not Sammy, no, can't be. Sam wouldn't look for me. Sam wouldn't save me, he said so. Left me in Purgatory, said if I was dying he wouldn't do anything for me, wouldn't try and bring me back…"

The chill that ran through Sam then was nothing like the soothing coolness of grace. Impulsively, he stepped forward, wincing when Dean flinched. Sam could see Dean's body being wracked with tremors, as if he was fighting against himself – or the Blade – to maintain control.

"Dean! That isn't what I said, not what I meant. I'd do anything for you, except take away your power to decide for yourself what you want to happen. Do you understand?"

Dean stilled. He wasn't looking at Sam, his face was turned so all Sam could see was that profile, so familiar from sitting shotgun in the Impala. But Dean at least stayed as if rooted to the spot, and Sam took his motionlessness as a sign that Dean was listening. He risked another step towards his brother.

"Abaddon took your will away when she stole your body. Of course I was going to try and get you back, Dean. I _know_ what it's like to be trapped in a corner of your mind, screaming while they use your body to do terrible things. Dean, I wouldn't wish that on anyone, and no way would I leave you to suffer like that, not when I could do something about it."

Dean glanced sideways at Sam.

"I did that to you," he said, his voice oddly flat. Sam nodded. "I let Gadreel possess you, and Kevin's dead because of me."

"Yes. And I'm sorry I said that crap about not being brothers, but you have to understand, what you did, the way you lied to override my decision, and then carried on lying to keep Gadreel inside me? Knowing Gadreel used me to kill Kevin, not knowing what else I might have done while he was riding me? It was more than I could bear. What you did was so wrong, Dean, on so many levels I still don't know where to start – I couldn't let Abaddon, or any demon or angel do that to you."

Dean finally turned to face Sam; his eyes so wide the green of the irises was clearly visible even in Helvíti's dim light.

"But Abaddon dumped my ass here, and you must have known she wasn't possessing me anymore. Yet you still came looking for me." Sam heard the question Dean refused to voice. Why?

"Of course I came for you, you fucking idiot. You're my brother and I fucking love you."

Sam was almost toe to toe with Dean now, and it felt the most natural thing in the world to drop his weapons and simply reach out with both arms. He enfolded Dean into an embrace and heard the dull thud as Dean released his hold on the First Blade and it fell to the ground. Sam hadn't realised quite how tense he had been until he felt Dean relax and return the hug. Sam clung onto his brother for what seemed an age but was probably only a few seconds, before Dean was squirming in his grasp.

"Dude, I'm naked; gerroff me, you big girl."

Sam grinned as he allowed Dean to pull away, his smile only widening when he saw how fiercely Dean was blushing. And how the blush went right down to…okay, not looking.

"Whose fault is that, man? I can't help it if you've been living like a freaking caveman down here."

Sam looked around. Where in Helvíti were they going to find Dean some clothes? The denizens of the realm, who had been present as a veritable army when Sam had arrived, had disappeared, only a few glowing eyes peered out of the darkness that surrounded them. Then he saw something large moving towards them. He started and crouched down, scrabbling for his discarded angel blades, as a huge wolf emerged from the shadows right by Dean's side.

"Whoa, hold on Sammy, it's okay," Dean said, holding up on hand to stall Sam, while his other tangled carelessly in the wolf's thick ruff of fur. "Sam, this is Hel, daughter of Loki, ruler of Helvíti. Hel, this is my ginormous geek of a brother, Sam."

Even as Dean was carrying out the introductions in his usual inimitable style, Hel was morphing from wolf into a tall, statuesque woman with striking white and black hair.

"Yeah, I know what you're thinking, Sammy," Dean whispered loudly, "Glen Close as Cruella de Vil, right? But younger, and with better…"

"Dean!" Sam hissed, and Dean shut up with a wink. God but Sam had missed this.

"You are leaving." Hel said, a statement not a question, directed solely at Dean. Who actually looked apologetic.

"Yeah, doll. Got a Knight of Hell and a rogue angel to kill. Thanks for the Blade and, you know, everything."

Hel snapped her fingers and one of the Náir appeared, carrying a bundle that looked, thankfully, like clothes for Dean. Sam wrinkled his nose as Dean pulled on the jeans without underwear but he at least felt more comfortable once his brother's junk was safely covered. Once he was fully dressed, Dean picked up the First Blade. An aura of red lightning flickered around him for an instant and Sam could see the Mark on Dean's arm flash even through the jacket.

"What say we get your grace juiced up and get us some demon action, little bro?"

Sam grinned. He could feel the prickle of grace stirring under his skin, and it was already starting to reinvigorate him. With Dean at his side, they could take on the world and win.

"Yeah, Dean. Come on. We've got work to do."

0x0x0x0

Fin.

* * *

**Don't forget, if you enjoyed the story, you might like my art that goes with it - Amberdreams on AO3 and Amber1960 on Live Journal! Cheers!**


End file.
